


Somnambulist

by callay



Category: Caliban's War - James S. A. Corey, The Expanse Series - James S. A. Corey
Genre: Cuddling, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8124712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/pseuds/callay
Summary: “It’s okay to be selfish for one second, buddy.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> After all the touching in Caliban's War, I knew I had to write something for these two, and, well, this is what I came up with.
> 
> This takes place almost immediately after they leave Ganymede. (I called it Somnambulist, but it takes place entirely on the Roci, haha.)
> 
> Be aware that the very beginning is a little dark and features violence involving kids. Then it's all comfort from there on, I promise.

On the Rocinante, Prax sleeps for the first time in what feels like forever – which means he dreams.

He dreams he finds Mei’s body. He dreams he sees her go down, bullet to the back of the head, face hitting the ground. In slow motion, he looks down, and his hand is on the trigger. He wants to yell at himself: Go back. Undo. Don’t touch the gun. Don’t leave Mei alone. Don’t do this. But no matter how much he yells he can’t make a sound.

“Hey, Doc.”

His mouth of full of blood and he’s drowning, struggling for the surface, but little Katoa is clinging to his leg, dragging him down –

“Doc.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, gripping him tight, and he fights his way towards it –

“Prax, buddy, come on,” says Amos, and Prax opens his eyes.

He was asleep, he realizes. His eyes are sore from crying and his throat hurts.

And Amos is in Prax’s room, bending over him. Prax is struck again by Amos’s sheer size; he’s big enough to block out almost all the light coming from the wall terminal near the door, making the small, dark bunk feel even smaller and darker.

It’s a comforting feeling, Prax finds with surprise – like it’s blocking out the rest of the universe beyond the two of them.

“You were having a nightmare,” Amos tells him helpfully.

Prax must have woken Amos up yelling – he remembers, earlier, Amos pointing out his own bunk, next to one Prax is staying in. “Sorry,” he croaks, feeling a rush of embarrassment. He’s not only intruding on everyone’s hospitality, he’s actually causing them trouble – causing Amos, the person who’s already gone out of his way to help Prax, trouble –

“You okay?”

Prax swallows. “Yes?” But actually his heart is still pounding. Fear still knots his stomach. He can feel the horror and helplessness of the dream lurking in the far corners of the room, ready to rush back over him as soon as Amos leaves. 

For a moment Amos looks down at Prax. It’s too dark to really see his face. Prax itches at the silence but doesn’t know what to say – he doesn’t want to impose on Amos but he can’t bring himself to want Amos to leave, either.

“I –” he starts.

“Scooch over,” says Amos.

“What?” asks Prax, but when Amos moves closer he automatically does it – moving towards the wall so that there’s room when Amos crawls into bed next to him. The bed dips under the added weight. Prax can only stare at Amos, his heart stuttering.

“Roll over,” says Amos, with a nod of his chin, so Prax, still bewildered, does, rolling to his side so he’s facing the wall – and Amos’s arm wraps around him, pulling him close. Prax takes a sharp breath and feels his back press against the solid warmth of Amos’s body, and in response Amos squeezes him, his arm heavy across Prax’s side. “This good?”

Prax just nods. He doesn’t know what to think, but he knows it’s good. The embrace sends warmth flooding through him, squeezing at his heart, chasing the nervous energy from his body. He feels himself calming down in a way that can only come from the instinctive knowledge of being safe. Touch has a way of doing that, he knows, forging bonds between animals –

Recently, he’s become hyper-aware of that. Touch. Little things, like Alex’s hand on his shoulder, Holden catching his arm when they change course and he stumbles through the shift in gravity. Or when he starts crying over breakfast and Naomi takes his hand and squeezes it. And Amos – Amos has been touching him a lot recently, like he’s trying to keep track of him, his hand heavy on the back of Prax’s neck or low and warm on his back.

The thing is that recently, Prax has been feeling like he’s floating, totally disconnected, with his heart and mind spinning off in different directions – and somehow, people touching him grounds him. Wipes out the grief and uncertainty of his situation for a second with a burst of warmth.

And this, now, Amos pressed snug against him, his big hand wrapped around Prax’s arm, holding him close – it’s enough to clear everything else from his head. All of his focus is taken up by Amos. He can’t help but be aware of everything, the slight shift of Amos’s legs on the bed, the weight of his arm over Prax’s side. He can feel every breath, can measure it by the slow swell of Amos’s chest against his back.

If he actually stops to think about it, he knows this is weird. But Amos radiates a matter-of-fact aura that makes it hard to feel awkward. Prax needs this – touch, safety, a moment’s belief that everything will be okay – far too much to fight it. 

Amos’s body against his is warm, and Prax feels heat spreading through him, gathering in his chest until it’s almost unpleasantly tight. He thinks at first it’s a surge of gratitude – protecting him from nightmares is, surely, beyond the call of duty – and he wants to roll over and thank Amos, one more time, for everything he’s done.

But when he does, rolling to face Amos – who keeps his arm over Prax’s side and his knees curled so that Prax’s bump into them – the hot urgency in his chest feels different. More like _want_.

The realization sparks through him, electric. It feels weird and wrong to want anything right now, but in the dim light Amos’s face is calm, _gentle_ , and Prax –

Prax can’t turn back around now, so all he can do is go onwards, clinging to the hot comet-tail of this feeling –

All he can do is lean in and press his lips to Amos’s.

His heart thrills at the feeling. Amos’s lips are warm and dry and for one long, lingering moment all Prax does is kiss him, feeling the pressure and friction between their lips.

When they separate he keeps his eyes closed. He can feel Amos’s gaze warm on his face, though, and he feels a deep, familiar pang of regret. What is he doing?

After a moment, Amos, says, “Guess I’m not so much helping you get back to sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” says Prax, keeping his eyes closed. “I… That was... inappropriate.”

“My kind of inappropriate, though,” says Amos, curling his arm around Prax’s back and pulling him closer. Prax’s eyes open. Amos is giving him a little smile, and Prax’s heart gives a jolt inside the web of tension in his chest.

Prax doesn’t know what to think, but he knows what he wants, and right now that’s enough for him to lean in again, seeking Amos’s mouth –

But Amos curls his hand around the back of Prax’s head and gently holds him still. 

“Wait, though, Doc. Are you sure you wanna do this?” His tone is gently concerned, and Prax feels a flush of embarrassment at the idea that Amos thinks he’s being entirely irrational –

Which he _is_ , he’ll admit –

But this feels more important than that. He can feel the certainty that he wants this squeezing at his heart.

“Yes,” he says fiercely, then amends: “That is, if you... I mean, I’ll be fine, I don’t want you to feel you have to do anything that –”

“Oh, I’m good,” says Amos, low, and his hand slides down to rest on Prax’s hip, big and warm.

And Prax feels hot all over, his cheeks burning, his heart pumping heat through his veins, urgent warmth filling his chest and curling in his stomach. “Then –” he says, looking up into Amos’s broad face –

Amos kisses him. He leans in to press their mouths together, hard, and a fresh thrill runs through Prax, something hot and instinctive. He kisses back eagerly, trying to lean closer, but the force of Amos’s kiss is enough to push him down into the pillow. Amos’s hand is heavy on his hip, and Prax lets himself fall onto his back, and Amos leans over him.

And so Amos is half on top of him, kissing him, propped on an elbow so only part of his weight is on Prax, but it’s more than enough to leave Prax breathless. Amos kisses carefully but forcefully, mouth moving in long, slow sweeps, tongue pressing into Prax’s mouth.

Prax’s world narrows to Amos’s mouth against his. Except that Amos’s hand is on Prax, too, pushing under his shirt, huge and rough against Prax’s skin. Prax shivers. Amos is kissing with a deep steadiness, the push of his tongue a slow, hot rhythm that echoes the pound of Prax’s heart, and his hand strokes firmly over Prax’s chest – and somehow Prax is reminded of Amos cleaning and prepping his guns, earlier: there’s a clear urgency to it, but it doesn’t make Amos’s movements any less controlled and effective.

All Prax can do is cling to Amos and kiss back, as best he can, his hands curled in Amos’s jumpsuit and his tongue sliding eagerly against Amos’s. It’s so easy to lose himself in this – to lose all his fear and anxiety, his frustration and grief, until all that’s left is this moment, this one small quiet space with him and Amos in it. 

Eventually Amos pulls gently away from the kiss. Prax takes a shuddering breath, his eyes closed. Instantly he misses the press of Amos’s mouth, and in the space left behind comes a spike of cold doubt. Did he do something wrong?

When he opens his eyes, though, he sees Amos undressing. Prax swallows. Amos is unzipping the jumpsuit he’s wearing to the waist and tugging his t-shirt over his head, calm and efficient. And then – wow. Amos shirtless is kind of a shock – big, muscular, decorated with tattoos and too many scary-looking scars to count in the dim light.

Prax is still staring when Amos reaches down to pull Prax’s shirt off, manhandling him easily to slide it over his head. Prax lets him, a flush rushing to his face. He’s down to his underpants except for the thin sheet still tangled around his legs, and he feels embarrassment surge through him. His body is so strange to him now, skinnier, full of weird angles – it can’t be appealing.

But Amos, lying back down on his side, touches him as if it is. His hand runs slowly up Prax’s chest, tracing his ribs, his shoulder, tracking down his arm. Amos’s gaze follows his hand, hot on Prax’s skin, and Prax shivers. He can barely stand the hot, confusing mix of embarrassment and desire this brings up in him, so as a distraction he reaches out to touch Amos, too. He can’t help wanting to explore – first Amos’s tattoos, which Prax resists asking about and just traces with his fingertips, observing. Amos’s chest is so broad, smooth skin under a dusting of hair, and when Prax touches the big, colorful tattoo of a woman he can feel Amos’s heartbeat under his hand, deep and much slower than Prax’s own.

Amos has a lot of scars, some obvious and some small enough that Prax only notices them by touch. He works his way down, tracing the contours of the big scar on the side of Amos’s abdomen, then presses his palm flat to Amos’s skin. Amos’s stomach is soft but Prax can still feel the power under his skin, subcutaneous muscle shifting with each breath.

Meanwhile Amos is touching Prax like he wants to learn the shape of his body, every corner and angle, every inch of skin that goes to gooseflesh when his hand brushes over it. Eventually his hand traces the angle of Prax’s hipbone, then slides back to his ass, pushing under his underwear. Prax shivers, heart giving an embarrassed thump at the feeling of Amos’s broad, warm palm on his skin – and then Amos’s hand slide further, tracing the crack of his ass, thick fingers pushing between his cheeks.

It’s an intrusive enough touch to make Prax’s stomach twist with a jolt of nervousness, and he pulls away, half sitting up. Clarity spikes through his fog of loneliness and desire and gratitude. It’s been years since he slept with anybody, he thinks, and much, much longer since he’s been with a man. Is he really ready for this? His daughter is missing and he’s busy having sex with a violent thug in space?

Never mind that said violent thug is cuddled up close to him, watching him gently.

“How about it, Doc? I know I might seem... intimidating,” – this suggestive line delivered with a small grin – “but I promise I know how to take real good care of you.”

Prax doesn’t respond to the teasing tone. His body is buzzing with some combination of desire and nerves and he’s struggling to figure out which is which. He doesn’t want to ask for more than he’s ready for – but he definitely doesn’t want to stop this, not now –

“It’s all your call, buddy – what do you want to do?”

“I... I don’t know,” says Prax in complete honesty, wondering if he’s ruining everything.

“No rush, then,” says Amos, his voice low and just rough enough to send a shiver down Prax’s spine. “We’ll take it nice and slow.” He moves his hand from Prax’s hip to his chest – a warm, reassuring weight, sending heat spreading like a heavy blanket over Prax’s body.

And Prax recognizes this feeling. The feeling that even though he doesn’t know what he’s doing, Amos does, and Amos will take care of him.

Relief and anticipation twine through his veins and he leans in to catch Amos’s mouth.

Amos kisses him back satisfyingly hard, pressing him down into the pillow. Immediately it’s as good as it was before. Amos kisses hungrily but steadily, his mouth moving in hot, rhythmic pushes, tongue sweeping into Prax’s mouth. His movements are precise not because he’s overthinking it, thinks Prax, but with the ease of long practice – and, like a skilled musician, his practiced expertise makes this more intimate, rather than rote. Prax, whose past partners can be counted on one hand, hopes he can be forgiven for drowning in it completely.

They’re pressed close, bare skin to bare skin. Amos’s touch feels rougher and more urgent now, enough friction to send shivers rushing over Prax. His hand slides further down to rub circles on Prax’s stomach, slow and suggestive, dipping low on his abdomen, and Prax squirms, stomach jumping. He might still not be sure exactly what he wants, but he definitely, definitely _wants_ –

He curls his hand around Amos’s bicep and tries to pull him closer still. Amos moves, leaning in, so that suddenly his cock is pressed to Prax’s thigh, huge and hot even through Amos’s jumpsuit. A helpless rush of excitement spikes through Prax and he shifts, pressing his leg more snugly between Amos’s thighs. Amos doesn’t make a sound, but Prax hears the hungry catch of his breath as his hips give a long, slow grind against Prax. Something instinctive thrills in Prax and he can’t help an eager little gasp.

He feels Amos’s lips curve against his and then Amos slides his hand down, pushing aside Prax’s briefs, and wraps a fist around Prax’s cock. Prax shudders, heat rushing to his face. Amos’s hand is so hot, and so big, holding Prax snug in his fist, the roughness of his palm tingling against Prax’s sensitive skin. For a moment Prax can’t breathe, anticipation sparking through his veins –

And then Amos starts moving, stroking Prax slowly, up and down. A burst of pleasure blooms in Prax’s stomach, sending tendrils of heat through his body. The feeling is exactly what he’s been aching for, and he has to close his eyes, swallowing a moan.

Amos is good at this. The tightness is just right, the speed and the slight twist of his hand. His eyes are on Prax’s face and every time he does something particularly good, he realizes it – Prax shudders at Amos’s thumb teasing the tip of his cock, and so Amos tries shifting his grip to squeeze the head, palm sliding rough against the tip, where Prax is most sensitive, and Prax can only gasp, back arching against the bed, fingers digging into Amos’s bicep.

Amos talks – not that he’s verbose, just a few words here and there. “All right,” he says, low, and “There you go,” his hand moving smoothly on Prax’s cock, changing rhythm every time Prax gets comfortable. His body is pressed to Prax’s, his hips giving slow rolls that push the hard line of his cock against Prax’s thigh –

Prax tries to slide his hand down, fumble at the front of Amos’s jumpsuit, but it’s hard to focus with Amos twisting his grip just right –

“Don’t worry about that,” Amos tells him, and he tilts his hips, pressing himself snug to Prax’s thigh and away from his reach.

Prax opens his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. “Are you sure? It’s not fair –”

Amos gives him a crooked smile as his hand works, tight and perfect. “It’s okay to be selfish for one second, buddy.”

Prax can’t argue, not when Amos’s touch is taking up all his attention. He doesn’t want to argue. “Okay,” he pants, dropping his head back onto the pillow and closing his eyes.

He lets himself fall into the feeling. His mind is blissfully blank, not the cotton dullness of malnourishment and lack of sleep but actually blank: just clear, pure pleasure filling him up like water in a glass. And Prax, who’s suddenly realized he’s dying of thirst, drowns in it, clinging to Amos, breathing in gasps.

It takes very little time before Prax is on the edge, his eyes closed, hips jerking helplessly up into Amos’s grip.

Amos is watching him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” pants Prax. “I’m –”

He doesn’t get to finish, because Amos’s fist speeds up and Prax can’t catch his breath enough to form words.

He can’t do anything at all, before it’s too much – before he’s coming, so hard that the world around him blanks out. The pulse of pleasure is so strong he feels like he’ll fly to pieces, except he can still feel Amos, warm and solid against him, keeping him together.

It seems like a long time later that Prax opens his eyes. Amos is grinning at him. Prax smiles back, dazed.

“Good?” asks Amos.

“Um, yes,” says Prax. “Th-thank you.”

“My pleasure,” grins Amos, and leans closer, and Prax pushes himself up on his elbows to kiss him.

He knows that as soon as he starts to think about anything outside this room, he’ll have to start worrying again, so just for another moment, he doesn’t – just kisses Amos slowly, relishing the sweet warmth of his mouth.

Meanwhile, Amos tries to clean Prax up with a few cursory swipes of his t-shirt – Prax decides he definitely doesn’t care – and then leaves his hand resting on Prax’s stomach, warm and heavy. Prax feels warm and heavy all over, satisfaction running through his veins, weighing him down.

“Sleepy?” asks Amos after a moment, and Prax starts awake from what was definitely not a doze.

“A little,” he admits, then glances guiltily at Amos. “What about… can I –?”

“I’ll be fine,” Amos says, giving Prax’s stomach a pat. “I’ve got two good hands, don’t I?”

“But –”

“Just rest, buddy, and then you can make it up to me tomorrow.”

A little thrill of anticipation sings across Prax’s nerves at the thought. “Okay,” he says gratefully.

It’s easy, then, with Amos’s hand still weighing him down, to close his eyes and slide into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [calllay](http://calllay.tumblr.com) on Tumblr! Also, you should follow my [Prax/Amos](http://prax-amos.tumblr.com) fan blog.


End file.
